You had stopped for thirty seconds. Maybe less. A portrait had caught your attention—some ancient nobleman with a jaw so severe it looked like he'd been carved from marble by someone who hated him.

When you turned around, your group was gone.

The corridor you took to find them was wrong. You realized that approximately four turns too late, standing in front of an unlocked door that opened onto something that was definitely not part of the public tour.

It was a garden. Not a courtyard, not a manicured patch of decorative shrubbery—a real garden, sprawling and private and so quiet you could hear the hum of bees.

There were no ropes. No signs. No tourists. Just the distant sound of water somewhere, and the scent of flowers you couldn't name.

And a man.

He was tall. Ridiculously tall. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, wearing a simple fitted shirt and dark trousers that probably cost more than your entire trip. He looked like he belonged exactly where he was, which only made you more certain you didn't.

He noticed you before you noticed him. When you finally spotted him, he was already watching, one eyebrow raised, clearly aware that you were very, very lost.